


i think you're the worst of them all

by ftmpeter



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Childhood Trauma, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Repressed Memories, Suicidal Thoughts, i barely managed to stitch this together so if it’s confusing i’m sorry, no, that quickly gets stopped, will i ever stop projecting my problems onto peter?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-01-29 17:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21414034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftmpeter/pseuds/ftmpeter
Summary: "They got me a babysitter," Peter continues, forcibly tearing himself back to the present. He swallows. "His name.. his name was Skip."He hasn’t said that name in so long that it sounds foreign on his tongue, like a language he was once fluent in but forgot.(As a kid, Peter read that a person only truly dies the last time someone talks about them. That was his logic - if he never spoke of him, maybe he would fade away. Maybe he would finally stop appearing in his nightmares. Maybe he would finally leave him alone.)-You can't outrun your trauma, no matter how far ahead you get. Peter is living proof of this fact.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 29
Kudos: 695





	i think you're the worst of them all

**Author's Note:**

> if you don't know who skip is/did not read the tags before clicking on this, PLEASE be warned that this fic deals heavily with sexual abuse, specifically childhood sexual abuse and the effects of it. while nothing is happening in the present, there are several flashbacks, memories, and references to it, and it's just.. a lot. read with caution and take care of yourselves, please.
> 
> on that note, this is a very, very personal fic for me. it's taken much longer than i planned to finish (and went way past the word count i was expecting, oops) because it's emotionally and mentally taxing to do so. i always put everything i am into what i write, which i hope is obvious, but this is different. i have gone through this myself and suffered the aftermath, and i want to portray it in such a way that truly gets across the reality of it. it's not meant to glamorize csa or use it as a plot device that only furthers the story. it's meant to be a representation of my experiences and how badly stuff like it can hurt you as a person. if you can relate, i'm sending you an internet hug. if you can't, i still am. the world needs more love.
> 
> stay safe.

It’s funny how remembering works.

You take in so much information a day that by the end of it, your brain has to filter out what’s important and what’s not. It discards details like the color of your shirt, or the time of the clock when you looked at it, unless it contributed something, unless it was important.

Usually.

Sometimes, things malfunction. Sometimes, something in your brain misfires and you remember the tiny little details of an event before you do the event itself. Sometimes, you remember the way your breathing felt crushed up against your lungs, the way anxiety shot up your veins and held you captive in your own body, but you can’t remember why. It’s blocked off, hidden from view, until something - anything - triggers it to come back. A place. A smell. A taste. A sensation.

A word.

When that something comes, it comes like a speeding car crashing on the highway at a hundred miles per hour.

That’s why when it happens to Peter, it happens _ hard. _

He startles awake at the end of English with the taste of someone else in his mouth. He rubs his eyes tiredly and looks around, only to be greeted by an empty room and MJ standing right beside him, bag slung over one shoulder and fingers tapping against the strap.

"Hey," she says, an unreadable expression on her face. "Bell rang. School’s over."

Peter groans. "I can see that."

The remnants of his dream drift into recollection, and he frowns. Most of it is hazy, but he can still feel the tugging of pajama pants, the shifting of couch cushions like it’s happening in real time. What was he dreaming about? He’s too tired to think. He stands up, gathering his stuff, and does his best to avoid MJ’s watchful gaze.

It doesn’t work.

"You good?" She asks, in typical MJ fashion. "No offense, but you look like crap."

Peter normally would take offense to that, but he knows it’s true. He could see the dark circles under his eyes before he left for school this morning, and if his hair is anything like it was earlier, it probably resembles a bird’s nest by now. And he just_ feels _ heavy, like there’s bags of sand tied to his shoes, preventing him from going anywhere.

"Yeah, I am," he answers as normally as he can. Is he? He doesn’t know. He grabs his backpack and tries for a smile, but it’s more of a grimace. "See you later."

He walks home rather than catching the bus for no other reason than to give himself something to do. His head begins to hurt going over the amount of homework he has for each class and how he should tackle it, so he stops, instead choosing to look down at the concrete. 

He contemplates the cracks in it without really taking it in, a wave of deja vu hitting him. Little bursts of emotions are happening inside of him, but it’s nothing that makes sense, nothing he can understand.

_"Just relax."  
_

The familiar voice startles Peter so badly he jumps, recoiling as if he’s about to get hit. He looks around wildly, heart pounding, but there’s no one around that could have said it. And besides, he _ knows _ that voice, knows it better than his own -

Why does he know it?

There are memories straining to be heard, to be recognized. Peter shoves them down out of habit, but they bubble up like water being boiled, not willing to be ignored. He can feel phantom hands touching him, pressing on his thighs, and he shudders. He shudders and subconsciously picks up his pace.

He gets to the apartment in record time. Aunt May says a hello to him from where she’s already cooking dinner in the kitchen - it’s a rare day where she’s off of work at the same time he’s home - and he barely acknowledges it as he darts to the safety of his room.

Peter knows he should feel bad for being so stiff with her, but there’s a difference between knowing something and actually doing it. He falls onto his bed in one swift movement, not having the energy to do anything else.

He must fall asleep at some point, because when he has the strength to lift his head again, the room is considerably darker than it had been before. He looks blearily over at the clock on his table - it’s a little after six. Which means he slept for three hours straight.

_No, doctor, _Peter thinks. _I have no idea why I can never sleep at night, why do you ask?_

A knock on the door pulls him away from his thoughts, and May pokes her head in. "Hi, sweetie. Dinner’s been ready for a bit - it's lasagna - but I thought I’d let you sleep. I have a plate for you."

Peter sits up, ignoring how his muscles ache and pop, and says, "Okay. Thank you."

May smiles, moving to leave, before pausing in her steps and turning around to face him. "Are you alright?" She asks, quirking an eyebrow. "You seem more tired than usual."

"I'm fine," he says automatically. He's not sure when lying became so much easier - but if it stops the people around him from seeing too closely, he'll choke down the shame that comes along with it. "Busy, you know."

She studies him, far too good at understanding what he means. "Okay. If you need anything, I'm here."

Peter nods. _I don't even know what's wrong, so how do I tell you? _"Yeah, I know."

"Good."

Once she leaves, he drags himself to the kitchen. He eats as much lasagna as he can - which isn't a lot - before wrapping his plate in some tinfoil and putting it in the fridge as leftovers for later. There's a mountain of homework waiting for him in his backpack when he heads to his room, and Peter _really _doesn't want to even think about doing it right now. So if he deliberately adverts his gaze from it and ends up looking at the Spider-Man suit instead, well, it was an accident. Seriously.

Peter wishes he could say he does his normal patrol and gets home by the curfew May set out for him, but he can't. He waits late into the night until he's absolutely positive she's asleep, then sneaks out the window and lets habit take over him. He drops down and swings high, relishing the way the air feels bending around him.

It's not that he's secretly going to parties or trying to get more vigilante hours in, no. It's just.. he can think more at night. He can focus. Remember who he is. Leave strange memories of hands on his body and lips pressed to his neck behind.

(They're still there, though. He's never managed to leave them behind for long.)

Patrol is easy. Peter does a few small things - points a homeless guy in the direction of a shelter, gets a girl on her midnight jog her headphones from where she dropped them in a sewer grate, buys someone a chocolate bar because they're short on change. It's nothing important, nothing he can pat himself on the back for, but it feels nice to be doing something. It's better than staying in bed and staring up at the ceiling like it'll give him the answers to the universe, anyway.

Eventually he finds his way to the top of a nearby building, tall enough that he can take his mask off without worrying about being seen. His feet dangle over the edge as he analyzes the events of the day.

He doesn't understand why today is so weird. It hasn't been a bad week, really, just exhausting, with decathlon practice and studying and tests and also trying to stay awake through all of it. So he doesn't understand why he feels so on edge, like someone is out to get him.

_"Lay still."_

What is he remembering? Why can't he figure it out?

"Karen, d'you have anything else for me?"

"There seems to be an altercation between a man and woman on 48th, in the alleyway behind a gas station," she answers after scanning the area, and Peter's eyebrows furrow. Who would arguing with someone be in an alleyway, especially at this time of night? "From what I can see, the man appears to be intoxicated and backing her against a wall."

Peter freezes. He always thought that the idea of someone's blood running cold was just a figure of speech, but it isn't, and definitely not right now.

He hurriedly puts his mask back on and jumps from the ledge without a second thought. The wind howls in his ears and the ground rushes to meet him before he shoots his webs in the direction of a nearby store, landing on the roof with a soft grunt. He spots the gas station in question and runs to get over there, almost asking Karen where they are because it's dark and not many streetlights reach the alleyways, but it turns out he doesn't need to.

"Please, I said - I said no - " There's a woman, blonde hair tumbling past her shoulders. Part of her shirt is ripped, and she has a nasty bruise on her cheek. It's hard for Peter to make out any distinguishing features, but it's evident she's terrified.

"Don't be like that, girlie. You know you want this," the man slurs. He's clearly drunk, gripping her wrists tightly so she can't run, and Peter sees red.

_"Come on. Don’t be like this."_

"Hey!" He yells, moving faster than he has the whole night. "Leave her alone!"

The guy, obviously not having expected anyone to stumble upon them, whirls around at the sound of Peter's voice, which actually works in his favor as he swings in, connecting his feet to his chest and sending him stumbling backwards. He hits the brick wall behind him with a painful wheeze, and Peter shoots his webs out again so they hold down his arms and legs.

"What the - get these the fuck _off_ \- "

"Maybe keep your hands off people who don't want them first, asshole," Peter snarls, surprising himself with his own harshness. But he finds that he doesn't care as he checks to make sure the restraints are secure, dials 911, and rattles off the street number to the operator that picks up. Once all of that is taken care of, he turns to the woman, who has her hands to her mouth and stares at Peter like he's the oddest thing she's ever encountered. He brings his shoulders down from where they had tensed up and does his best to appear non-threatening despite the anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach. "Hi, uh, the police are on their way if you want to, uh, press charges?"

Police sirens pick up somewhere, and that seems to be enough to snap her out of her trance. She stammers out, "T-Thank you, Spider-Man."

"Of course," he responds. Why does he feel so faint? This barely ever happens while he's fighting crime. Strange scenarios speed by in his head like a roll of film - him, in the exact same position as the woman, vulnerable and powerless and someone taking advantage of that, taking advantage of _him_. But that didn't happen.

Right?

As the sirens get closer, Peter bolts for it. He feels a twinge of guilt for leaving, but there's panic threatening to paralyze him to the spot, and the police don't like him that much in the first place. He sends up a prayer that everything goes alright for the woman as he runs, skipping between buildings and getting as far as possible from the scene. When he finally skids to a stop, he sits down on the edge of the street. No one is around to see him, thankfully, and he makes a noise that's in between a groan and a whimper.

His heart is about a million beats too fast. He holds a hand to his chest, trying to breathe, but it comes out more like a whine. He recognizes it as the beginning of a panic attack, but in a detached sort of way, like he's watching it through a television screen.

"Incoming call from Tony Stark," Karen says, interrupting Peter's mini breakdown. "Do you want to accept it?"

Peter straightens. Mr. Stark is calling him? He almost wants to say no, but he's learned from experience that declining a call from Tony is pointless because he'll just put it through either way. It's like a parent knocking on their child's door then still barging in without an answer.

"Uh, sure."

Tony sounds wide awake, unsurprisingly. His sleep schedule rivals Peter's for the most chaotic. "Kid, what are you doing?"

"Would you believe me if I said homework?" Peter bites down on his tongue, cursing at the dumb joke. _Idiot._

"No, I wouldn't," Tony says. "Though it is reassuring to know that you're okay enough to be making sarcastic remarks. Care to tell me why you're in the suit at this time of night? And why your heart rate is through the roof?"

"I, uh, couldn't sleep." Peter says, dodging the second question. He plays with the fabric of his suit.

"Does May know you're out this late?"

Silence.

"Peter."

"No," he finally answers, running a hand through his hair and tugging on it. There must be something off in how he says that, because he can tell when Tony makes the change from annoyed to concerned.

"What's wrong?"

_"Everything's okay. Just do what I say."_

"N-Nothing. I'm fine, Mr. Stark. I'll go home now, I'm sorry for bothering you."

"Kid - "

"Goodnight," he says quickly. "Karen, disconnect. And mute audio."

Peter stands up just a bit too fast, because his vision spins and he has to hold out a hand to steady himself. Thankfully, he knows this area, and starts to head home - he wasn't lying about that, at least. He doesn't web the way mostly because he doesn't entirely trust himself not to be startled by that unidentified voice in his head - God, he really is losing it - but he soon regrets that about ten minutes later when a black car pulls up beside him. The window rolls down, and Tony gives him a dubious look from the steering wheel.

"You do know I can track your suit, right?"

"You do know personal boundaries, right?" Peter jokes, but it falls flat. "Kinda creepy, dude."

Tony gazes at him, then gestures to the passenger seat. "Get in."

Peter obliges, knowing a useless fight when he sees one. The entire ride, he keeps expecting to be grilled, to be questioned on why, exactly, he thought it was a good idea to not only hang up on Tony but also blatantly ignore curfew, but it never comes. Instead, they get to the compound and he sets him to work on an unfinished project from a few weeks ago. Peter knows, logically, that it's to make sure he doesn't get scared off again, but it works. It works, and by the time he successfully solves a problem with one of the gas tanks, he’s able to pretend it’s just another normal afternoon lab day. If normal lab days took place at 1:47 in the morning.

"I really have my own Einstein, huh?” Tony laughs, looking over at Peter’s progress. "Maybe we should get you an IQ test."

Peter would laugh too - really, he would - but the moment that first sentence registers in his ears, everything simultaneously stops and comes back to him all at once.

_"Let's play a game, Einstein."_

No.

_"Be good for me, Einstein."_

No. No, no, no no no _ no._ This isn’t happening, he’s not back there, he’s not -

_"You won’t tell anyone, will you, Einstein?"_

Full-blown panic explodes in Peter, and he trips over his own two feet, narrowly missing the table but knocking over the chair right beside it. He can’t be back there, he can’t, but if he isn’t then why does it feel so real, why, _ why is this happening again _ \- 

Someone touches him, trying to get his attention, but that just makes it worse. He blindly throws an arm out, not caring when it connects to skin and a hiss of pain follows because everything is spinning and he’s nine, ten, eleven years old again, scared and confused and so fucking terrified. He doesn’t know where Tony is. He wants to know where Tony is. Did he leave?

Does everyone leave?

Peter can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, can’t bring himself to let air in because if he lets air in then he’s letting everything in. He’s letting in the fact that he’s alive and he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to be alive because being alive means being hurt and being hurt means remembering and remembering means this. All he is, all he ever has been is remembering. The dam has collapsed, everything that he tried to repress is flooding in, and all Peter can do is remember.

"Peter," someone is saying, over and over like a song left on repeat. They’re hovering around him, careful not to make contact. "Peter. Pete, kid, you’re okay. I promise you’re okay. Can you hear me?"

Lab. Compound.

"Fuck, I’m not good at this, _fuck_, Peter, listen, I’m just gonna talk since you obviously don’t wanna be touched, um - you’re okay, you’re here, with me, and you’re okay. Nothing is wrong. I mean, you’re having a panic attack, clearly, but nothing is wrong, and - "

Lab. Compound. Tony. 

That last thing is what gets Peter to breathe.

A sob escapes from him before he can control it, and now he’s crying for real. It’s not the delicate, pretty kind of crying either - it’s the snot dripping down his nose, the pressure behind his sinuses, the hot, burning tears kind, where everything is just too _much_. Peter wants to die. Being dead has to be better than this, surely.

(What would the harm be, anyway, when a little piece of him had died along with his innocence all those years ago? Wouldn’t that just be finishing what was started?)

After what feels like hours, his sobs shift to sniffles before they become silent altogether. Sometime in the middle of it all, Peter had sat down on the floor, so his hands are pressed against the cold tile. It’s grounding, in a way.

He looks up, and Tony is sitting beside him. Which, yeah, is pretty humiliating in of itself, because Iron Man just witnessed his panic attack, oh, God, but a bruise is forming right underneath his left eye and Peter suddenly thinks back to how he raised an arm to defend himself from who he thought was - 

"Did I do that?" Peter croaks, horrified.

Tony, to his credit, is quick to reassure him. "That was - that was my fault. I shouldn't have touched you, not when you were panicking like that. I'm sorry."

Peter stares at him, taken aback. Why is he apologizing? Why would _anyone_ apologize to him?

"Do you want to tell me what that was about?" Tony asks softly, smoothly moving away from the subject. It's not in a prying way, in fact, it's the opposite - a carefully worded question, leaving an open end for Peter to avoid the conversation altogether. So his initial reaction - _absolutely not, let's just forget this ever happened, please and thank you_ \- is battled by something else, another feeling that is practically unknown to him. The feeling of wanting to talk.

"I.. I don't know," he admits. A part of him wants to find the closest dark closet and not emerge from it for the next year, but another part of him, one that is smaller but equally as persuasive, wants to.. say it. Say everything, until there's nothing left to say.

"When I was younger," he starts, and that in of itself almost manages to knock the wind out of him. He presses his nails against the palm of his hand, closing his eyes briefly as he focuses on the slight twinge of pain. After a minute, he opens them again. _ Keep talking. _"Aunt May worked a lot. Which was fine. She - she always has, you know?"

Tony makes a vague noise of understanding, looking at Peter’s hands. It’s obvious that he wants to stop him from piercing his skin, but he doesn’t. Peter feels a surge of gratefulness for that.

"Yeah. Yeah, um, it was fine though, because Uncle Ben was always there to watch after me since he only worked nights, after she’d get home, but - but then, I guess, something, uh, something with the rent happened? And Ben needed to pick up more hours, uh, to pay - pay the bills and everything."

There are so many words rising up in Peter’s throat, scraping his vocal chords and cutting the roof of his mouth, that he doesn’t know how to get them out. They float just out of reach, out of sight.

"They didn’t want me home alone,” he whispers. A part of him wants to speak louder, wants to raise his voice so it’s a crashing, deafening scream, but all he can do is whisper, whisper like he’s telling some deep, horrible secret. “They, uh, didn’t want me home alone, so they got - they got me a babysitter."

_"I don’t want a babysitter!" Peter huffed, crossing his arms in defiance. He was a big kid now - he had just turned ten! He could look after himself. He didn’t need somebody to make sure he didn’t get into trouble. _

_"Honey, you don’t have to think of him as a babysitter,” May said, squatting so she was eye level with him. She rested a hand on his shoulder. "This is just for our peace of mind, okay? We know you’re very responsible."_

_ Ben nodded fake seriously from his spot on the couch. "She’s right. You’re the bestest, most responsible kid ever. You even give me a run for my money!"_

_ Peter tried to look annoyed - which he was, thank you very much - but he ended up giggling anyway. That got a smile out of May, and she said, "And don’t worry either, he’s not some boring old person like me or your uncle. He’s sixteen. Who knows, maybe you’ll get along!"_

_ Sixteen still seemed like ages away, but he couldn’t contain his curiosity. "What’s his name?"_

_"Steven. But he likes to go by Skip."_

"They got me a babysitter," Peter continues, forcibly tearing himself back to the present. He swallows. "His name.. his name was Skip."

He hasn’t said that name in so long that it sounds foreign on his tongue, like a language he was once fluent in but forgot. 

(As a kid, Peter read that a person only truly dies the last time someone talks about them. That was his logic - if he never spoke of him, maybe he would fade away. Maybe he would finally stop appearing in his nightmares. Maybe he would finally leave him alone.)

_"Skip, I don’t wanna - I don’t wanna do this - "_

_"Shh, Einstein. It’s fine. This is just something friends do, you’ll see."_

Tony watches him, concern clear in his eyes. "Peter - "

"Let me finish," he cuts in despite himself. If he stops now, he’ll never get to this point again. "Let me finish, please."

Tony listens.

"His name was Skip. And - and he was nice. He was nice. We would play video games and eat junk food and he was _ nice. _ I don’t - " Peter’s voice cracks. "I don’t know why that’s so important. But he was so nice, God, and I didn’t know. I didn’t know and I couldn’t have but I hate myself so much for that.

"After a few days, he started showing me.. stuff."

Tony’s entire demeanor changes at that. He stiffens, and almost as if he’s afraid to hear the answer, asks, "Stuff?"

Peter nods. Images flash in his head, the images and videos that still make him sick to this day because he didn’t understand what they were, why he was being shown them, but that clawing feeling in his gut knew it was wrong even then.

He grits his teeth. _ Focus. _

"Stuff. P - p - porn. That thing. Yeah. You know. From magazines, at first, but eventually - eventually he moved to things off the internet, and I didn’t really get it, but he said that’s - that that’s what grown-ups do. And.. and.." Goddamn it, why can’t he just talk? Before he can break down completely, he squeezes his eyes shut and says in one big rush, "Andhewantedtodothattome."

It goes silent. When Peter finally opens his eyes, Tony's staring at him, and that alone is almost enough to make him want to close them again.

"He _what?"_  
  
"Don’t make me say it, Mr. Stark, I - I can’t," Peter blinks away the tears that threaten to spill. "I can’t, please don’t make me say it - "

"Okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to say it," he immediately soothes, despite the anger that appears to be simmering just beneath the surface. He reaches forward, hand outstretched, but stops at the last moment. "Can I..?"

Peter’s first impulse is to flinch away, to shake his head, but then he pauses. Tony would never - Tony would _never _do something like.. like _that_. He knows that, knows that better than he knows anything else, so why is it so hard to let it happen? Why did Skip have to ruin affection, ruin the one thing he craved?

_Let yourself have this_, he thinks, and aware of the way his heart stutters behind his ribs, Peter nods.

Tony gently rests his fingers on his wrist first, looking at him questioningly. When he doesn't react, he carefully pulls Peter into a tight hug, like if he tries hard enough, he can shield him from harm, from all the demons and monsters and nightmares the world has.

Peter melts into it before he can even make the conscious decision to. It's like he's been running the mile at school for hours and just got the chance to catch his breath. It's like the calm in the middle of a storm, but instead of the dread of what's to come, there's peace. Relief. A moment of tranquility.

"There was a woman," he mumbles into his shoulder. "And - and someone, he was really drunk, I think, uh, he was trying t-to hurt her. That's why my heart rate was so fast, I guess. I stopped it, but.. yeah."

"Oh, kid," Tony's hold gets a little more protective at that. "That's good. That's - that's really good. I'm proud of you."

"He, uh.. Ski - you know, him, he would call me Einstein. Because I was so smart." Peter doesn't know why he admits that out of nowhere, but it feels important that he does.

Tony inhales sharply, seeming to realize what that means. "That's why - Pete, I am so sorry - "

"No!" Peter's head snaps up so fast that he almost hits Tony's in the process. He stares at him, wide-eyed. "No, no, please don't blame yourself for that. You didn't know."

"I - " At Peter's pleading expression, Tony stops, starts to say something else, then sighs. "Okay. Okay, I won't."

They don't move from where they are on the floor for a little while longer, mostly because Peter thinks he might fall over if he does. And moving comes with consequences - standing up, going home, pretending that this didn't happen, pretending that _nothing_ happened, trying to function in a world that seems out to get him more often than not. So it's easier to tuck his head away, to hide, to act like everything is okay.

Nothing is. Nothing is okay, not right now. But with Tony next to him, warm and steady, he can almost trick himself into believing that it will be.


End file.
